


Don't You Want to Know How We Keep Starting Fires?

by appelwagon



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, 5 times fic in disguise, Christmas, M/M, Matchmaking, Mistletoe, the crew made them do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7023061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appelwagon/pseuds/appelwagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written back in 2009 for this space_wrapped prompt: The Mistletoe conspiracy - everyone knows that Jim and Bones are gone over each other, but they are stubborn and in denial about it. So the crew hatches a plan to put mistletoe (or the weird non-Earth equivalent that they managed to find on some planet) all over the ship where Jim and Bones are "forced" to kiss every time they bump into each other under the hanging plant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Want to Know How We Keep Starting Fires?

**Author's Note:**

> Title snatched from the Electric 6.

1\. 

“-mnit, airlock every last damn one of them! I don’t care, just do it, Chapel!” Jim doesn’t jerk back from the communications panel when Bones’ voice comes exploding out of it, but it’s a close thing. Spock, on the other hand, doesn’t even bother raising an eyebrow.

“JIM,” the communicator crackles bitchily, Bones’ voice clearer now that Jim apparently has his full and undivided attention. “This your idea of a joke? Stringing _poison_ from the sickbay rafters? Well har-hardy-har, Jim, I ain’t laughing. Try something like this again I’ll hypo your ass into hyperspace.”

“Already there, Bones,” Jim says bemusedly as the comm viciously cuts out. He doesn’t even bothering replying to McCoy’s this-conversation-is-over voice when experience tells him Bones is long gone. 

Although this – well, this is intriguing. Knowing Bones, ‘poison’ could mean anything from spinach paste to trilithium resin – probably closer to the former than the latter, seeing as the doctor took the time to complain rather than pounding every red alert in reach. Which can only mean that someone on board his ship has been messing with McCoy, and Jim’s got to admit he’s a little offended at being left out of the action.

Jim is still swiveling in his chair, running a mental checklist of crewmembers with the balls to grab a McCoy by the horns, when suddenly there’s a red and green-striped space shuttle looming in the view screen. And then there are Klingon pirates and glittery Winter Cheer Bears and contraband and Jim forgets about the conversation altogether.

A.

“Chapel. Chapel. Tell me you didn’t actually airlock them.”

“Lieutenant! Aren’t we under attack by Klingon pirates? Should you really be on your comm right now?”

“My mistletoe. Just tell me it’s not in orbit around the _Enterprise_ right now. Tell me it’s safe.”

“If you care so much about your plants, then why did you put them at the mercy of Doctor McCoy? Honestly.”

_“Chapel.”_

“You’ll get them back after you save us from the Klingons. Chapel out.”

“But-”

_“Chapel out.”_

2.

Jim joggles the little toy Holiday Spirit and it gives a grainy chuckle, rolling its glass eyes and waving its little red arms. _“Have a festive holiday of your choice,”_ it warbles. _“Unless you abstain from celebration, in which case enjoy your day.”_

“Kind of a sick place to hide illegal arms, don’t you think?” Sulu calls from knee-deep in a pile of red and green. He pulls a phaser pistol from a stuffed Winter Cheer Bear’s back and frowns. 

“It’s like we hijacked the Holiday Spirit’s space-sleigh,” Scotty says disbelievingly, palming a compression phaser rifle and the giant candy cane it came from. “A crazed, murder-bent, blood-hungry Holiday Spirit.”

“What orders, Captain? We towing this lot back?” Giotto calls from the front of the Klingon storage bunker, his voice weirdly muffled in the toy-crammed expanse. “We’ve transferred all the Klingon prisoners aboard the _Enterprise_ , but transporting this junk’ll be a nightmare. Scott’s right, this haul is one big festive landmine.”

Jim nods tiredly as he picks through the loot. “Round up a security team. We’re going to need a full inventory of what we’ve got in here. In the meantime, we tow.” It’s warm in the room, sweat prickling under his collar. He rubs at the ache building behind his temples with a heavy hand. 

“Hey, do you –” Jim starts, turning to Scotty. Cuts short when the room bends around him, swinging over his head. Three worried-looking Scotties blur in front of his eyes and reach for him, speaking muffled words. 

“What the –” Jim manages, swiping an arm out to support himself. He misses the wall entirely and falls face first into a pile of wreathes. They slide to the side to reveal a mountain of mistletoe.

“-fuck,” Jim says dizzily, and then blacks out.

B. 

“He’s allergic? How did we not know he’s allergic?”

“Well if somebody’d just let me hack into the Cap’n’s medical files, this mess could’ve been avoided entirely. I’m just sayin’.”

“Mr. Scott, it is a grievous breach to Starfleet – not to mention medical – protocol to access Doctor McCoy’s files in such a manner.”

“Well, too late now. Good thing we started with McCoy instead of planting Kirk’s ready room. That would’ve been ugly.”

“Da, can you imagine? I believe the doctor would have airlocked _us_ instead of mistletoe.”

“Boys, please. Can we get back to the task on hand? We’ve hit a serious roadblock here.”

“I foresee an additional complication – the doctor seems violently averse to this species of plant. I do not believe he would willingly participate in the traditional Earth custom associated with it.”

“Well. I guess that leaves us only one option.”

3.

It won’t stop beeping. And it isn’t emitting the standard muted, polite Starfleet warning beeps, either. These are full on, steroid-enhanced rage beeps. 

“Scotty!” Kirk’s practically shouting. “Make it stop! I’m serious. This is interfering with ship business.” 

Scotty spreads his hands helplessly from where he’s sitting at his desk. Jim’s standing in the doorway, so the entire Engineering crew on staff right now is getting a show. “I’m afraid I cannae do anything, Cap’n. Never seen anything like it in my life. I suggest you just do what it says.”

“ERRP. ERRP,” says the whirring plexiglass mistletoe hovering over Jim’s head. “TO DISENGAGE MISTLETOE ALARM, ENGAGE LIPS WITH CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER IMMEDIATELY. ERRP. ERRP.”

Kirk doesn’t even deign this with a reply, just burns holes into Scott’s skull with his eyes. The engineer almost quails, but Scotsmen are made of stronger stuff than that. That, and the stomp of familiar boots echoing up the hall is enough to distract the both of them. 

“Why, here comes the man himself!” Scotty cries, ducking quick as you please out the door. McCoy barely spares him a glance as he hurries over to Jim, harried and flushed from an apparent jog down from Sickbay.

“What in God’s name is going on here?” he yells, eyes fixed on the floating monstrosity following Jim like some perverse halo. “Spock commed me and said you left the bridge in ‘considerable emotional distress,’ but he didn’t mention anything about-”

“ERRRP. ERRRP.” The mechanical mistletoe gets impossibly louder and starts flashing red, casting almost demonic looking lights over Bones’ baffled face. “TARGET IN SIGHT. ENGAGE EMBRACE. ENGAGE EMBRACE.”

“Engage – what? What is this thing?”

Jim can feel himself starting to fray a bit around the edges. A fake plant is shrieking over his head, Bones is giving him crazy eyes, assorted redshirts are staring like Christmas come early and a monster-headache that Jim normally associates with allergies is building in his temples. So when Bones cups a warm, dry hand around his neck, brow furrowed and lips pursed, and _tries to scan the damn thing with a tricorder_ \- Jim figures it’s perfectly within his rights to snap. 

“Fuck it,” he mutters, and Bones just has time to give him a startled look before Jim’s gripping his jaw in both hands and pressing a firm kiss to his CMO’s slack mouth. It’s surprisingly soft, McCoy’s nose brushing his, and something in Jim’s chest tightens impossibly before he pulls away. 

Bones’ lips are parted, eyes stunned. The tricorder is frozen over his head, and Jim is close enough to see the flush build under McCoy’s powder-light freckles. Jim’s gut lurches, and he’s just about to blurt out god knows what when the mistletoe abruptly de-powers and lands with a dull thunk on his head.

Jim jolts back. The crack seems to shake McCoy out of his stupor as well, and he rounds on the gaping engineer staff, barking, “WELL?” 

No one seems to have a reply for that. Redshirts scatter in a whirlwind of titters and Jim just knows someone’s snapped a holo that’ll be all over the _Enterprise’s_ main network by noon. Meanwhile, he’s got a suspiciously sophisticated lump of plexiglass at his feet and an M.I.A. Chief Engineer.

Bones kicks at the thing, and it rolls pathetically across the floor. “Scott’s?” he asks darkly, long fingers curling in a way that says they want a hypospray.

Jim nods grimly. “I think you know what this means, Bones. _War_.”

C.

“Is so romantic!”

“Y’reckon? Dinna think we’ve solved anything here. I’d call that a strictly twain-friends sort of kiss.”

“But Mr. Scott, you see how he leans to the keptain’s touch. He is like majestic Russian wolf, drawn to the scent of prey.”

“I don’t know, I think he just kind of looks constipated.”

“Indeed, the doctor is exhibiting signs of severe emotional distress. Again, I would like to question the efficacy of your methods.” 

“You got any better suggestions, Spock?”

“Unfortunately, Lieutenant, I am at a loss.”

“Ship full of geniuses an’ we still cannae master the laws of attraction. ‘Spose we – eh, what’s this then?”

_BEEP. “This recording is intended for Chief Engineer Scott. Voice confirmation required.”_

“Aye, lass, it’s Scotty.”

_“Scotty, this is your Captain speaking. I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into, my friend. Oh, and by the way? I’ve got your Dewar’s. I need hard evidence that you’ve macked on a member of the bridge crew by 1700 hours today, or Rand’ll be using your scotch to gargle. Bones says it’s good for the gums. Kidding, I made that up. Kirk out.”_

4.

The footage on the microchip slipped under Kirk’s door is kind of a letdown – just two seconds of Scotty pecking a laughing Sulu on the lips – but it’s long enough for Jim to catch a blur of Uhura, Spock and Chekov in the background. 

“Bones. _Bones_ ,” Jim hollers from where he’s sprawled out his couch, half-heartedly playing and re-playing the clip. “They’re all in on it. The entire alpha bridge crew is spending their free time trying to get us to make out.”

Bones snorts but otherwise doesn’t look up from his PADD. “Sure, Jim. Starfleet’s best and brightest have nothing better to do than to use plants to make their senior officers make out.”

Jim raises his eyebrows. Bones frowns and does a clear double-take. “Goddamnit! I’m a doctor, not a Barbie doll!”

Jim smirks. “Does that make me Ken?”

Bones says something pissy, and the conversation kind of drifts off course after that. But it sticks in Jim’s mind, even while they’re breaking atmo round the starbase on Denobia V with a pack of Klingons in the back seat. The why of the whole situation bugs him. It’s all pretty coordinated for an off-hand practical joke. 

But overall, Jim feels like he and Bones have the thing covered. They’ve dodged all signs of greenery this past week – Bones with his army of nurse-spies and Jim by bribing Rand to walk through doorways before him.

Unfortunately, none of these precautions seem to apply to Uhura.

“Greetings!” the Denobian Chief Officer cries as they disembark. She bows her domed blue head and raises a hand, halting the _Enterprise_ security team as they wrestle the Klingons from the shuttle doors. “Before we commence with business,” she says in a musical voice, “Your communications officer has informed me of the traditions of Starfleet Terra. Captain, you may exchange the kiss of health with your Chief Medical Officer before you step foot on our planet.”

Next to Jim, Bones freezes. Jim would laugh at the stricken look on his face if he didn’t feel it mirrored on his. Over Bones’ shoulder, Uhura looks smug. Oh, she’s gonna get it.

In the meantime, Jim pastes on a smile and bows. “That is most gracious of you,” he says smoothly. He can practically hear the tirade ready to burst out of Bones’ mouth so he quickly turns, gives him a look that says _shut up_ and stops it with a firm kiss. 

Again, kissing Bones is surprisingly sweet and hurts in a way Jim can’t quite define. Bones is warm and Jim lets himself touch his cheek – to reassure the man, he thinks – before he pulls away. 

“Oh!” the Denobian official cries, looking distressed. “We understood that the ritual was to last for a span of one Terran minute. Please do not let our presence dissuade you! We on Denobia celebrate tradition in all its forms.”

She nods encouragingly, and dangles a prickly red and green plant over Jim’s head. Bones stares at it, stares at Jim, stares back up. Jim doesn’t know if he wants to laugh hysterically or court-martial everyone in the room. But before he can do anything, Bones is muttering “immature, ridiculous,” leaning in, and more or less mashing his mouth to Jim’s. 

At first they just stand there, like they can pass the minute like statues with their lips glued together. Then Bones shifts, sighs, and it’s warm and uncharacteristically hesitant. Jim can’t help tilting his head, pressing closer into Bones’ chapped lips. There’s a soft hand on his elbow and a slide of tongue on his lip and without any command from his brain, Jim’s mouth slips open. 

Bones makes a quiet noise and then there’s one hand in his hair and one on his back holding him still as Bones kisses him careful and slow. Surgeon-precise and strangely familiar for all that it’s brand fucking new. The knot in his chest sharpens, and Jim feels himself flush as Bones gently tugs his hair and goes deeper. A tongue curls against the roof of his mouth and Jim’s hand fists in McCoy’s shirt. 

“Excellent!” a businesslike voice says in his ear. Jim jerks away so sharply he almost clocks Bones, who staggers back pink faced and wet lipped, staring at Jim like he’s never seen him before. “Now if you would accompany us – and your charges – to the Level D holding cells, Captain?”

Jesus H Christ.

D.

“But- I thought we unloaded these with the rest of the Klingon cargo!”

“Clearly not, Lieutenant.”

“Spock, honey. There’s no need to call me ‘Lieutenant’ when we’re alone and sealed in my quarters by a wall of mistletoe.”

“I concede your point, Nyota. However, I still fail to understand how our present predicament could be construed as ‘punishment’ for our actions on Denobia V.”

“We can discuss that later, dear. For now – we’ve got traditions to uphold.”

5.

All in all, it’s a good thing they have a prank war raging because Jim’s not sure Bones would be talking to him otherwise. The doctor’s been avoiding his gaze in the hall, stopping by the bridge less, bringing mountains of paperwork to their Monday unwind-nights. They still talk, but Bones’ hazel eyes always focus just to the left of Jim’s, and there’s always this space there between them. Indirectness is so unlike McCoy that it’s driving Jim a little nuts.

So he’s almost grateful when Chekov lures him up to Recreation Deck 4 with the promise of chess, only to lock him in. Bones is already there, not even moving from his spot by the replicator when Chekov shoves Jim in with a gleeful, “Door opens when plants are all disappeared!”

As the door swishes shut, Jim takes a moment to collect his bearings. The room is dim, holographic mistletoe covering the ceiling in a muted web of light. They gleam like ruby and green stars, revolving silently. Shifting colors play over Bones’ face, lighting the tip of his nose, softening the line of his jaw. He twirls a glass of water in his long fingers, watching it refract with a quiet frown.

“That’s a heck of a lot of mistletoe,” Jim says, voice too loud in his own ears as he straddles a chair facing his best friend.

“Sure is,” McCoy drawls, still not looking up.

He doesn’t seem to have anything more to say than that. Jim shifts, skin prickling, one eye on the blanket of lights that would be almost romantic if they weren’t making his life cripplingly awkward. He spares a moment to wonder how his otherwise genius-level crew could be so dense.

“So I’m guessing one holograph disappears for every kiss, am I right?” Jim says. “He’s rigged up some sort of biosensor.”

Bones raises his glass in a silent toast, and tosses back the water like it’s a shot. He’s quiet for a bit more, eyes fixed on the wall by Jim’s head, until he admits quietly, “Didn’t know I’ve been so obvious.”

Jim’s pulse quickens, mouth dries, but he keeps his gaze level. “We gonna have this conversation now?”

Bones’ mouth twist wryly. “Guess you’re right. If we’re going to have to kiss-” quick calculating glance upwards- “thirty-four times to get out of here, I’d rather think there’s a least a chance my partner’s willing.” He finishes that sentence with a hesitant glance at Jim, a fleeting look through his lashes.

A low-level thrum runs through Jim’s veins, his heart knocking in his ribs. He can’t think of anything else McCoy could mean besides the obvious but the obvious just seems impossible, and before he can think too hard about what he’s doing he’s climbing into McCoy’s lap, knocking his glass aside and looking straight into eyes that hold a tight veiled longing Jim can’t believe he’s missed.

“Really?” he rasps, throat dry, and then he’s pulling McCoy’s head back and sealing their lips. Bones’ hair is soft, his eyelashes brushing Jim’s cheek as he stiffens under him. Kirk coaxes, dipping his tongue into a mouth slack and warm with surprise. And then there are two hands fisting the back of his shift, cool fingers brushing the warm skin at his waist. 

McCoy’s jaw is rough with stubble, and Jim cups it as he gently pulls back, lips clinging a bit. Bones watches him with wide eyes, looking part-defiant, part-defensive and part-warily hopeful in away only he could pull off. Jim can’t help grinning, dipping in for another lingering kiss on that mouth.

“Jim,” Bones says roughly, pressing a broad hand to Kirk’s chest. His eyes flick up, and Jim follows his gaze – two dark spots break the web of light over their heads. Jim grins again, curling one hand into the soft skin at the base of McCoy’s neck. 

“Bones,” he murmurs, trying for sexy though he’s buzzing enough it comes out more like a croak, “if you leave this room with any confusion about what I feel about this-” punctuating the word with a sharp shift of his hips that leaves McCoy gasping- “then I’m doing something wrong.” 

Bones’ eyes widen, then darken to a slow smile. “Well, you’ve got thirty-two chances to get your message across, Jim.”

“Let’s get to work, then,” Kirk murmurs against his lips, and that’s all the talking they do for a good while.

E.

“Dear lord.”

“Is that… tinsel? Did they keep the _entire_ Klingon stash?”

“It is illogical to continue monitoring the security feed. We have achieved our objective.”

“What’s wrong, Spock? This making you feel emotional?”

“Quite on the contrary. My response is of purely physical. I am experiencing an acute case of nausea.”

“Well I’d tell you t’ fetch a doctor, but...”

“Wait, is Kirk looking at the camera?”

“God, just shut it off!”

“Fine, fine, just lemme find the-”

_“Hey, guys?”_

“Oh, he is not talking to us mid-coitus.”

_“Thanks for the holiday present. From both of us.”_

_“Jim, what’re you – oh hell no. HELL NO. If you peeping toms don’t-”_

CLICK.

“… well. Happy holidays, everyone.”

 

~  
 _End_


End file.
